


cryptography is not a love language

by kinaesthetique



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Family Dynamics, Gen, Take to the Skies compliant, ana is a drama queen and it hasn't always been a good thing, bastet compliant, family isn't always fun and games, fareeha is about 25, mostly - Freeform, okay FINE yes this is a vent fic don't drag me thanks, the angst is chapter one, the hurt/comfort healing is chapter two, the sort of thing that i cried while writing but most people won't think it's that serious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-10-07 03:20:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17357963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinaesthetique/pseuds/kinaesthetique
Summary: "She never responded to my first letter."A look into how Fareeha responded to her first letter- but not her first posthumous contact- from her mother.





	1. cipher

**Author's Note:**

> I was chiefly inspired to write this because of [Nikanono's art](https://twitter.com/_nikanono/status/1082426681955016705) for the recently released Ana short. Secondly, because I have a Lot of headcanons regarding Fareeha and Ana's relationship, chiefly that their current relationship is only as stable and loving as it is because Ana has taken a step back, realized her own shortcomings/anxieties and how she'd projected that onto her daughter, apologized for her distance and Fareeha got counseling in college to help her understand her mother and in turn herself.
> 
> This is, like most things I write, compliant with the Take to the Skies universe, even though it stands alone. Funnily enough, I haven't had cause to explore Fareeha's (very complicated) relationship with mental health in detail, but this is as close as you're going to get for now.)
> 
> Relevant line from TTTS:  
> > "These are two things that Fareeha knows for sure about her mother. The first is that, for better or worse, Ana does almost everything on purpose. Sometimes this is infuriating like her cryptic “post-mortem” riddles. " -THH, ch 2

It's not the letter itself that bothers her.

It's not signed, not literally. But it's unmistakably from Ana—

_It's a simple joy to write this letter like this._

_Take care of your memories, my dearest._

_—_ because it's written just like the secret notes Fareeha often got as a child. A private Amari cipher, befitting of the child of a quasi-secret agent—

_Hopefully, this works once more._

No, it's not the letter's format. Or even what's in it. Not at all. The content of the letter is standard—

_If you are still mourning, I'm sorry to cancel it._

—and annoying. Fareeha rolls her eyes—

_I wish I could still say you'd understand when you're older but you are no longer a child._

The shadow of the young child that lives in Fareeha's heart- the one who knew her mother would always come home, no matter how long it took- always wondered about the details of her mother's death—

_I know that is my fault. I know enough now. I could never have known then._

No. This is not a surprise—

_Did you enjoy the flowers? You always had such a green thumb..._

—at all. But, when Fareeha first pulled the weathered roll of honest-to-god papyrus out of the glove of her Raptora, the first thing she felt was irritation.

It's clear—

_But I'm afraid you're the only one who can know._

_—_ that Ana would not have entrusted anyone else to deliver it, and into the Helix armoury, no less.

Fareeha unrolled the papers halfway then rerolled them, looking around wildly. Her suit's bay was scarcely wide enough to pace comfortably in either direction. With one entrance, a small window, and some venting, it was by no means a fortress, but certainly, a hassle to infiltrate.

And yet—

_I know this will get to you safely but I also hope it finds you healthy and whole._

—It certainly wasn't there after she'd disengaged from her suit late last night. She'd barely slept, too caught up in explosive nightmares—

_You were never a child to back down from a challenge._

_I don't know why I was surprised that you ever challenged me._

_Parenting makes one foolish, I suppose._

—to fight for any more sleep. Just past dawn when she'd returned for maintenance, the scroll was just _there_ , achingly old-fashioned and scribbled in scratchy, steady Arabic—

_I hope you still remember the cipher, my dear._

“Clearly, since I'm halfway through this bullshit,” Fareeha mutters, scribbling the decoded letter onto spare papers.

 _I... don't know what this will mean to you… this letter is far too late, I know this_.

Fareeha stares at the words she's written and sighs heavily—

_This is the sort of letter I should have written to you a long time ago._

“A scrambled voicemail would have been less of a chore.” Fareeha rolls her eyes, feeling a grim note of satisfaction at how long it must have taken her mother to encode this. Bitter, she starts again—

_Or...no, if I was a better mother, I would have simply told you._

_I am sorry._

_Perhaps if you were a lesser daughter, I might have been good enough for you._

Fareeha's pencil breaks in half. She fetches another, shoving the papers into her bosom as she sneaks through the barely-awake compound to find another one—

_You might find this out one day, but nothing prepares you for your child taking a path that you yourself regretted._

_But you are stronger than I._

_I_ _hope you find more fulfillment than I have._

“I should never have bothered.” Fareeha grits her teeth. She's twelve again, preoccupied with finding the handwritten note squirreled away somewhere in the tiny apartment that she and her mom share. Then far too busy packing her journal and the well-worn cipher key to pay attention to her auntie telling her to gather enough clothes for a few weeks. Knowing she'll see her mother again soon and brag at how _easily_ she could crack her codes—

_I know you're doing well._

_I cannot even begin to say… how proud I am._

_This is what you wanted. I can see that._

_I only wish…_

_In many ways, I grew weary of the life I led._

_I never wanted that for you._

“What else did you expect me to do?” Fareeha snorts. She shifts the page down to keep decoding and is surprised to see only a few lines remain—

_Though I must stress, I entrust this secret to you because I love you._

_I_ _t's not a burden I share with you lightly._

 _I_ _hope you can understand._

“Well, I don't,” Fareeha mutters, finally finishing her copy of the letter. She rereads the original once more, checking for errors, mistakes, skipped words.

There's no invisible ink.

There are no hidden messages when mirrored or flipped.

There's no explanation of where she's been, what happened, or why she waited a year to even send a pot of creamy yellow chrysanthemums, a bitter sunrise that flourishes in Fareeha's office.

There's nothing.

“Why did you even bother?” Fareeha whispers, crumpling her copy of the letter in her fist, letting the pages take the brunt of her anger. She sits there frozen for untold minutes, stewing in her thoughts. Then she carefully folds the translation up and gathers the original letter for safe-keeping.

That’s when it catches her eye. In a warped corner, almost like it'd been washed away and reapplied several times: a small, crudely-drawn feather.

It means _write me back._

* * *

Needless to say, Fareeha does not concentrate very well the rest of the day. When people ask, and thankfully few do, she attributes it to a lack of sleep.

Her mind keeps wandering to the pot of chrysanthemums. They're a conversation piece, not for any curiosity regarding a secret admirer or anything like that, but because the plant has only grown bigger and more vibrant under her care. They arrived on her first day at Helix, so many months ago. It hadn't taken much inquiry to figure out they weren't a company-standard welcome gift.  After a few internet searches, Fareeha had realized they were every bit of a legacy as her tattoo, not that anyone else knows that.

The letter that sits in the false bottom of her desk safe makes her want to finally throw the plant out.

In bed that night, Fareeha briefly contemplates mutiny, and not for the first time. She _could_ tell someone that her mother is alive. She's held this secret for more than a year already now. Who would believe _her_ , just a child still wishing—

_Who would I even tell?_

She grabs her journal, a few pens, and heads down to the armoury. By the time the sun comes up, Fareeha's asleep. Her pages are blank, pens gnawed.

The next four nights pass in a similar fashion.  She sits in the armoury with only her Raptora for company, blank papers in hand, staying awake far too long. She dozes in bursts, waking at the slightest sound. She dreams of flapping coats, the _shiff-shiff_ of stealthy feet, a whispered word of affection, approval, apology—

Fareeha wakes with little to say and even less to write.

It catches up with her. She wakes up in her office one night, face stinging from the impression of her keyboard. Her chrysanthemums glare accusingly from across the room and she glares right back, suddenly angry.

She stalks across the room, grabs her pruning shears, and _snip!_ The largest bloom comes off in her hand, complete with a short stem. Her feet carry her to the armoury and she stands there, bathed in cold, unsympathetic moonlight, chest heaving with anger.

“I'm not writing you _anything._ I'm not writing in code or metaphors or _flowers._ No, you don't get that. You get... this.” Fareeha takes a deep breath, already more awake and aware that there's likely no one listening that needs to hear this, but it's well past midnight, so—

“How _dare_ you be so close. Close enough to sneak in and leave notes?” Fareeha hisses, nearly choking on the accusation. “How...how fucking dare you… If you loved me—”

_“—you'd listen to me! You'd know this is what I want! What I have always wanted! You weren't even home to sign the papers; I snuck them on your desk and you didn't even notice! How did you not notice that!”_

_“And if you'd for just_ one _second listened to your mother, you'd know there are millions of way to protect people without putting yourself in harm's way. When you went to college, I thought you might finally grow up and realize that!” It was ironic, Ana standing in the foyer, still in her Overwatch fatigues: home from her duty, facing her responsibility._

_Fareeha stood tall, a deep breath straightening her spine. “Look, I’ve already done everything you wanted. I don't want to leave-”_

_“Habibti, then_ don't. _This country has had enough Amaris.”_

_“But they haven't had me.”_

_“_ They _don't need_ _you, but I-” Ana had stopped suddenly, fallen silent as if Fareeha had slapped her. Ana had looked away, running her hands through her hair. “Fareeha, please. You have your whole life, a wonderful education, your youth. You could do anything, just think about this.”_

_Fareeha had only hefted her bag higher on her shoulders. She was twenty-one, recently graduated with incredible marks, and accepted to boot camp with the promise of something great, ready for something different._

_“I did think. A lot. Listen, I don't want to leave on bad terms, but I_ am _leaving.” Fareeha had stepped toward her and even though she was taller, her mother's shadow still felt enormous. “Whether you want me to or not.”_

_Ana had stepped aside._

_Fareeha had not looked back._

_“—_ you would have said this all to my face. You would have supported me or at least _tried._ You could have called me or come see me instead of Jack and Gabe passing along messages and claiming you were proud of me.” Fareeha throws her hands up, pacing like a trapped tiger. “Or, I don't know, maybe you could have _looked me in the eye now_ and told me your _goddamn_ self!”

_Snap._

Startled, she finds the chrysanthemum blossom crushed in her hand. Fareeha sinks into the chair, the one meant to support her while she puts her armor on. She lets her head hang, hair beads clanking together.

“And yeah, I got the _joke_.” Fareeha chuckles dryly. “Living funeral flowers. You're dead, but you're alive. Would it have killed you to just _say_ that?”

But her cynical tone crumbles as the reality hits her; the flower falls as she buries her face in her hands. Her shoulders heave. She chokes down hiccuping sobs, not even caring how snotty and gross her sleeves are getting. When she finally leaves the armoury, she leaves the chrysanthemum be; she can't bring herself to crush it underfoot, but picking it up isn't an option either.

When the sun rises the next day, the flower is gone.

Fareeha simply thanks the nearest custodian and tries to forget.


	2. decrypt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ana answers the recall. Fareeha forces herself to come to terms with the fact that her mother will never understand how much she hurt her daughter. 
> 
> Ana, however, has had time to think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder: this is directly canon to the Take to the Skies/Sent from Valhalla universe but requires no prior knowledge of that fic to understand this. (If Angela (and Fareeha and Ana for that matter) seems a little off model from what you're used to for me, this takes place a YEAR before SFV ever starts.)
> 
>  
> 
> This is a healthy and healing relationships only event, enjoy!!!!

**_December 29th, 2075_ **

 

 _If you get a chance,_ the tiny transmission had read once Fareeha'd decrypted it,  _there are some heirlooms... 31°12'15.1"N 29°56'40.4"E_

Too caught up in Helix business, Fareeha had decided she had enough heirlooms- on her face, in a pot in her office, and locked away in a safe.

Besides, she didn't really have time.

She thought about it on the plane from Vancouver, having said goodbye to her father. She thought about it as she watched the clouds pass by. She thought about it while using the first class wifi to catch up on Helix emails. She thought about it as she touched down in Giza and was swept away by aides and personnel clambering for her guidance.

No, she _really_ didn't have time to go on a trip to Alexandria for some "heirlooms".

She just didn't.

* * *

 

**_June 9th, 2076 — Six months after the initial Overwatch Recall_ **

 

When Winston calls a meeting and reports that he's received a transmission from two individuals, the Shrike and the Soldier: 76, it's all Fareeha can do to keep from rolling her eyes.  

“Obviously, we’ve heard of these vigilantes before,” Winston says carefully, unable to hide a glance at Fareeha. “It’s just that they added some information that makes them of interest to us.”

Angela squeezes Fareeha’s thigh beneath the table and it’s then that she realizes she’s clenched her jaw absurdly tight. It takes every second of the hushed meeting room silence to relax both her jaw and her fists. Fareeha threads her fingers through Angela’s and waits for Winston to continue.

“I have done every possible check for authenticity that I could have and Athena has as well. Soldier: 76 claims he's former Strike Commander Jack Morrison.” Winston waits for the gasps to die down before continuing with, “And Shrike claims to be the former Captain Ana Amari. Aside from the apparently false reports of their deaths, everything checks out.”

The rest of their tiny Overwatch— Genji and his teacher, Zenyatta, Lena, Mei, and Angela— are suitably shocked, too much so to dissolve into excited chatter.

Fareeha can feel the world falling away, almost as if she’s gotten up and left. She retreats to a corner in her own mind, wondering why she feels next to nothing.

_Detachment is a common coping mechanism for loss._

Obviously, her mother is not a surprise. Not even vigilantism is a surprise. The Shrike had been a thorn in the side of the Egyptian military during the last few months of her service and continued to both aid and frustrate Helix Securities during her time there as well. At the time, Fareeha ignored the uncomfortable flares of hope, even after the flowers and the letter.

_She won't have changed._

It was unhealthy to assume Ana had stayed close because of _Fareeha_.

_Wasn’t it?_

“ _Liebling,_ ” Angela’s gentle voice brings Fareeha a little closer to reality. “Are you alright?”

“So are they coming here?” Fareeha hears herself ask.

“Ah, well, yes. They’ve officially answered the Recall.” Winston sounds uncomfortable. She can’t imagine why _he’d_ be uncomfortable. “I can’t say why they waited so long, but…”

Mei looks confused. “What if it’s not them?”

_It’s them. Shrike is, without a doubt, my mother. And she would know if it weren’t Jack._

“And when are they getting here?” Lena sounds excited, and she can’t help but wonder why.

“Later this afternoon. A couple of hours from now, I believe.”

A chill runs through her veins.

_What would I even say?_

Fareeha pushes her chair back and stands. She can see the question in everyone's expression. She tosses them a mirthless lopsided salute and announces, “Sweet. Every family has its secret, right?”

Angela's expression shatters. Fareeha wilts a little, feeling a twinge of pain for putting that expression on her face. She leans over and kisses her forehead, then excuses herself from the meeting.

She already has everything she needs to know.

* * *

The wait in the hangar is oddly solitary. Fareeha spends most of the time reminding herself of who she is and who she's become and surprisingly little on what she'll say to her mother.

_I have already thought that through many hours and sessions in the last few years. She doesn't understand how much she hurt me. I've healed. That's what matters._

Company comes in the form of none other than her girlfriend. Judging by her appearance, Angela had gone straight to the lab to think after the meeting. Fareeha lays her head on Angela's lab coat and breathes in the scent of antiseptic cleaners and her favorite bacterial test subjects.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn't have left like that,” Fareeha mumbles when Angela places a hand on her shoulder, not willing to sit on the grimy tool chest that Fareeha's been glued to for two and a half hours. “I'm just as bad as her. I can't _do_ that.”

Angela scoffs. “As always, _liebling,_ I appreciate your commitment to self-awareness and introspection, but I think you are justified in being upset.”

Fareeha thinks back to her own parting words. “No, but I knew.”

Her girlfriend continues to stroke the fabric of her shirt. “I thought so. We weren't sure, but to me, something… felt off about your reaction.”

“She wanted me to write her back.”

Angela just hums.

“I didn't.” Fareeha takes a deep shuddering breath, shoving the heels of her palms into her eyes. Tears slip past anyways. “I couldn't. I thought I was over that. I've spent years getting over that.”

Angela hugs her. It's surprising; Fareeha is so startled that she starts crying harder. Angela is not a practiced hugger- she'd advised Fareeha of this when they started dating. She holds her a little too tightly. The position is awkward and stiff.

“Even after scars heal, they can get infected and burst.” Angela strokes her hair. “They always heal again. You'll be okay.”

 _Maybe this would be easier if she was dead,_ Fareeha thinks but keeps that thought to herself. Angela didn't have the choice and wouldn't appreciate the sentiment. She dries her eyes and pulls out of Angela's awkward embrace.

She looks relieved.

“I'm okay now, thanks.”

“You don't have to be.”

Fareeha wipes her face with the collar of her shirt. “Okay, I'm _not_ , but I'm good enough to pretend.”

Angela looks ready to argue when Athena announces, “Unauthorized personnel is approaching the Watchpoint from the north gates.”

There's a whoop as Lena bursts through the door from the watchpoint proper, followed closely by Mei, Genji, Zenyatta, and Winston.

Perhaps because they don't see them or perhaps for privacy's sake, they all gather at the furthest bay door and open it.

“Athena, if you could direct them in this direction?”

“Certainly, Winston.”

Wordlessly, Fareeha gets to her feet and forces herself to join the tiny crowd. Angela slips a hand into hers; it helps ground her but only slightly.

Jack rounds the corner first and they all fall silent as he removes his face mask, leaving the visor.

“I expected there would be more of you by now,” Jack grumbles, “But it's better than no one at all.”

“Oi, we've been doing our best, you grumpy ol’ codger!”

Mei stares at her, shocked. "Lena, Commander Morrison came _all_ this way-”

“Don't call me that-”

“Er, Commander Jack?” Genji tries.

“I’m no one's commander. I didn't come back to be. Just Jack is fine.”

Fareeha tunes out the noise, watching the sky beyond the bay door. That is until a hooded figure steps inside. She drops her gaze to the brown and gray fatigues and tattered coat.

The figure removes a mask, hood, and coat, transforming from the Shrike into her mother. Ana situates her braid in a more comfortable position, her eyes scanning the crowd.

She locks eyes with Fareeha.

“Ana, it _is_ you!” Genji exclaims, breaking away from arguing with Jack about why he came back.

“Was there ever any doubt?” Ana keeps her gaze on Fareeha, walking calmly toward her. Her voice is odd to hear after so long. Fareeha can feel her head spinning out of control.

_What do I say?_

“Fareeha, _habibti.”_ Ana stops in front of her, just out of casual reach.

_Have I always been this much taller than her?_

“Hey, Mom.” Her voice comes out flat.

“It's good to see you again. I—” Ana pauses, realizing how everyone has turned to stare at her instead of Jack. “May we talk in private?”

“Sure.” Fareeha drops Angela’s hand like a hot coal. “Sure, why not.”

She turns, not stopping to see if Ana follows, following her feet to the unused cantine.

They sit on dusty aluminum chairs at a random table. Ana places her mask and coat on the table, along with her rifle, her utility belt, her tranquilizer pistol. Grains of sand resonate against the metal surface and the pleasant sound that results jolts Fareeha back to proper attention.

“Look Mom, whatever you're about to say-”

“Fareeha, please.” Ana sighs, sounding impossibly ancient. “I've had over a thousand nights to prepare this speech. If I could ask you to just _listen_ to me for one last time, I… please.”

_I have literally done nothing but listen to you for more than half of my life._

Fareeha frowns, ready to retort but purses her lips and remains silent.

Ana reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small book. She flips it open and holds it out toward Fareeha.

“You couldn't have,” Fareeha can't help it. Her eyes begin to water.

The chrysanthemum is faded nearly to white; the stained outline in its former color draws a neat line around its original size. The petals look as if a lively wind could turn them to dust. The crumpled petals and stem are just as broken as Fareeha left them.

“I am a coward,” Ana begins softly. “I hid where you would not find me and waited for you to put your feelings in a way that I could consume them safely. I didn't want to face your anger. But I heard it.”

“ _Bullshit,_ ” Fareeha breathes out, remembering her half-conscious tirade. The tension bleeds from her shoulders; if that's true, then what else can she possibly say?

“ _Habibti_ , dearest please,” Ana snorts. “You're so used to having the high ground that you never look up.”

“No.” Fareeha snickers in spite of herself, imagining her mother squeezed into the rafters. “You weren't!”

Ana sobers. “Yes. I was. And Fareeha, I _am_ proud of you. I am. I should have told you plainly before now. I didn't tell you enough as a child. I thought I was protecting you, but—”

“You tried-”

“No. I didn't and we both know it. Fareeha, don't lie to me just because I'm here. Just because I'm your mother doesn't mean I can't be wrong. Do you know how long I believed the opposite? Of course, you do. Parenthood makes such fools of us all.”

Fareeha nods, breathless.

“I thought I knew better for you. I thought I could see every obstacle and source of pain and just steer you away from them. Even when I wrote you, I still couldn't let go of that. I was so focused on the path I showed you that I refused to look at the one you paved yourself.”

“I mean, it hasn't been easy-”

“Nothing is easy,” Ana cries out. “Fareeha, I couldn't make your life _easier_. I should never have tried. What I was supposed to do was be there for you, no matter what you chose. But I thought that by refusing to support you in that, you'd go back to what was safer.”

Ana takes a deep breath and wipes the tears from her cheek. “All that did was leave you alone far too young. I know you won't always need me— I'm your mother, not your heart— but I shouldn't have been the one to make that decision for you. I should have never left you so alone. I refused to listen to anyone who told me otherwise.”

Fareeha just swallows, trying to hold back tears.

“I failed to protect you from myself, Fareeha. And that is my greatest crime. And even after I _died,_ I still managed to hurt you so much.”

“Mom, really-”

“Do you know why I sent you those flowers? You know part of it. Living flowers for the dead. Flowers that are supposed to be dead but living regardless. Flowers that you kept _alive_ , Fareeha. The _burden_ I placed on you because I wanted to be reminded that you, in so many ways, were keeping me alive. That was so selfish of me and I am so sorry. I put that on you when all you ever needed to thrive was for me to tell you what I assumed you already knew. You are so incredible. You are such a beacon of hope to the people around you and a daughter any mother should be proud of. And I am so, so proud of you. I should've never let my fears get in the way of you knowing that I love you. And you've lost years of that.”

Fareeha opens her mouth and shuts it again.

“I can't replace them. I can't fix them. I can only apologize. But if you could let me be your mother once more-”

“Mom-”

“You've always been my light, Fareeha.” Tears begin to slip down Ana's cheeks.  “I should have never stopped being yours.”

“Mom, it's okay.”

“I love you so much. I should have shown it better-”

“I love you, too, you know?”

“I wouldn't have taken such a thing for granted. If you didn't, I would understand.”

“But I do.” Fareeha gets up and sits next to her mother, awkwardly wrapping one arm around her. Ana wraps both arms around her in a tight hug and after a moment, Fareeha returns the gesture. “I'm kind of surprised to hear all this. I… I figured you were never going to understand what you did wrong.”

“You were right to believe it.” Ana hiccups. “It took me too long to even accept that I might have been a bad mother. That my best attempts still hurt you.”

“You did you best-”

“But I know _better_ now,” Ana interrupts harshly. “I do hope you haven't been making excuses for me.”

“No actually, I haven't. I never told you that I went to a therapist in college, did I?” Fareeha swallows, feeling exposed with the admission and glad she can't see her mother's expression. “All the way up until I left Helix actually.”

Ana pauses. Fareeha can feel her jaw clench and release against her own several times before she responds.

“I wish that you did not _need_ it, but I am grateful that you went. Did it help?”

“More than I can express.” Fareeha sighs, glad for it. _I wouldn't have listened to any of this if I hadn't._

“I am glad. Not that you had to, but that you went.” Ana holds her tighter. “I'm grateful for that. I'm grateful for a second chance.”

“You kind of botched the first part of it, but I'm glad we get one, too.”

“Words could never express how lucky I am to have another chance to be your mother.”

Fareeha just sniffles and clings tighter.

“And maybe one day, a grandmother?”

Fareeha rears back and makes a face. “Really, mom?”

Ana laughs and pulls Fareeha back in for another hug. “Not anytime soon. Let me get used to being a mother again first. Let me get that _right_ first.”

Fareeha clings to her mother, listening to the sounds of their sobs in this too-empty space. Even knowing her mother is older and even more fragile, Fareeha can't help but feel safer in her embrace than she has in a long time.

_A second chance, huh?_

“Mom?”

“Yes, Fareeha?”

“Thanks for coming home.”

* * *

A few days later, once Ana gets settled in, Fareeha invites her to the watchpoint courtyard. Under the June sun, they break the yellow chrysanthemums’ pot with a hammer and plant the overgrown plant in a flower bed together.

“So you did that stupid thing,” Fareeha says, sitting back on her heels and pointing to the chrysanthemum bush. Ana flinches a bit but nods. “And I am never going to forget it. It's going to be a while until anything outshines it.”

“But I think we can grow around it.” Fareeha takes a deep breath and pushes a small pot of white chrysanthemums into Ana's gloved hands. “For honesty. I want to put that one at the front.”

“A good idea.” Ana looks from the pot to the space in front of the yellow flowers. “Is there enough room?”

“We'll prune the yellow mums when the others start growing.” Fareeha grins when the symbolism fully dawns on her mother. She turns and grabs the tray of a dozen other flowers in varying species and colors. “I can speak your language too, you know. When I want to.”

“That is fortunate.” Ana smiles, tears running down her cheek. She looks over the tray of pots that Fareeha presents. “White heather for protection. Pink freesias for motherly love and white for renewal. Daffodils for rebirth. Daisies for new beginnings. Blue irises for hope. This is a wonderful idea, _habibti,_ but what are these bulbs for?”

Fareeha smiles. “White tulips. For-”

“Forgiveness.”

Fareeha puts the tray down and wipes the tears from her mother's face, creating a muddy smudge, then hugs her tight.

“Thank you,” Ana whispers. “I'll make sure they grow. Here and between us.”

Fareeha just hugs her mother tighter.

_I can see them growing already._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heavily influenced by this line from Steven Universe: "I see so many things that can hurt you. I should never have let one of them be me." - Garnet, to Steven, Future Vision
> 
> As with everything I write, this was very self indulgent. This was a bit more wishful thinking/personal than usual, but ah well. It's getting to be that time of year anyways.

**Author's Note:**

> I have about 82 headcanons and about 58 of them got confirmed by Bastet, 2 got thrown out, and the others are called headcanons for a reason.  
>  _Yellow chrysanthemums are a popular funeral flower and mean neglected love and sorrow._  
>  Dedicated to every mid-twenty-something who's still like "wtf i'm grown, my parents don't affect my feelings anymore, wait fu-" and to anyone who has a tricky, difficult, or rough relationship with a parental figure. Keep healing. You deserve it.


End file.
